


To the Brink and Back

by XtinaJones91



Category: The Americans (TV 2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, Relationship(s), Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-07-14 16:38:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7180604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XtinaJones91/pseuds/XtinaJones91
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU look at Philip and Elizabeth in the aftermath of Martial Eagle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Crush

**Author's Note:**

> Starting another multi-chaptered The Americans fic. This one explores some of the dynamics of Season 2.

They got in late last night, another mission to bring them a step closer to the DOD’s stealth plans.

It was supposed to be a quick and easy grab - interrogate, put the fear of God in them, get the intel, dump them. How often the easy ones turned into difficult ones. The guy fought back, landed several hits on her when Philip (‘Mike’ last night) stepped out of the room.

She should have seen it coming, should have been prepared, but her mind had been elsewhere, dwelling on Philip and the haunted look that took residence in his eyes, on his face, throughout his whole body since the night at Martial Eagle. It had been nearly two weeks since then and he’d been slipping further and further, not just from her, but from the kids as well. And that’s what concerned her most, had her mind searching for a way to help him, a way to bring him back from the brink.

The man struck her hard, first an elbow to the cheek, leaving a purple bruise, then to the abdomen, right where she’d been shot. Breath knocked from her lungs, doubled over in pain, she struggled to fight back.

The man came at her again and she braced for impact, threw up her arms to defend the blow.

But it never came because Philip appeared behind her, stepped in front of her at the exact right moment, an arm raised to parry the man’s attack, the other going straight for the man’s throat.

His movements swift and powerful, Philip quickly overtook the man and pinned him to the wall.

She watched, captivated and a bit terrified by the look in Philip’s eyes.

The man’s face purpled as Philip lodged his forearm against the man’s throat. The man struggled to breathe.

Philip pressed harder.

She stepped forward.

“Stop,” she stated, voice quiet.

Philip blinked, eyes cleared of their rage as he turned to her, seemingly startled to see her there.

“Stop,” she repeated.

Philip blinked again and turned back to the man pinned beneath his arm. He relaxed his arms and let the man slump forward.

Philip stepped aside as the man fell to his knees, gasped and choked for breath.

For a moment she was in their garage again, the captain dead at Philip’s feet on the concrete floor.

So much had changed since then.

Philip moved away from the man, glanced down at him with contempt and shame in his eyes.

He came to stand before her; his gaze darted from the hand on her abdomen and landed on the bruise blooming across her cheek.

He raised a hand to her face, a hand that moments ago was clenched in a blind rage, had administered brute force. A hand that was now relaxed, gentle and soothing as it cupped her face, his thumb a light brush across her cheek, careful to not pressure the bruise.

“Are you okay?” he asked, voice hoarse and low.

His eyes raised from her cheek to meet her stare.

The swirling torment she saw etched into his face that bled from his eyes stirred a sense of protectiveness and desperation within her.

She nodded into his palm and swallowed against the lump in her throat.

Behind them the man continued to choke and gasp.

“Are you?” she asked.

His eyes clouded and darkened, his feelings shuttered from her.

“Fine,” he answered, voice clipped.

He dropped his hand from her face and strode past her. She found herself immediately missing its warmth.

She made no move to go after him, knew it would do no good.

* * *

 She wakes to the smell of coffee that drifts from downstairs. Streaks of morning sunlight fall across the room causing a headache to burst in her forehead as the light meets her eyes.

She squeezes her eyes shut. Her cheek throbs beneath her right eye and her temple now throbs as well. She rolls away from the window and the empty side of the bed, Philip’s side.

She blinks her eyes open, more carefully this time. A glass of water and three aspirin greet her on the night stand.

A small smile comes to her face as she pushes herself up and reaches for the water and pills. She downs the glass and sighs, leans her head back against the headboard.

She can hear the indistinct noises of Sunday morning cartoons playing downstairs, the tick of the clock on their bedroom wall, the low hum of Philip and Henry’s voices as they converse beneath her, Philip’s voice deep and calming, Henry’s higher-pitched and excited.

Again she smiles in spite of herself, allows a brief moment to wash over her where this is her life every day, normal and happy. She, Philip, Paige, and Henry. Her family happy and whole, about to embark on a lazy Sunday, no troubles in sight.

She shakes her head, regrets it as the sharp pain of her headache springs up.

She pushes the comforter off and steps into the bathroom, wondering how much concealer she needs to cover the bruise this time.

* * *

 Bruise sufficiently hidden and robe on, she makes her way down the stairs, footsteps quiet and drowned out by the cartoons that emit from the TV.

Her eyes catch the fresh pot of coffee, an empty cup left out for her, a plate of eggs and ham dished out, green onions and cheese mixed in the way she likes it.

Her gaze then falls to the twin mops of dark hair that poke over the back of the couch, their color identical but their style complete opposites. A copy of his father in so many ways, Henry’s hair comes from her, something she previously took great pride in, a small victory she counted for herself in the earlier years of their marriage. Now though, she unexpectedly finds herself wishing Henry inherited Philip’s curls, thick and luscious when she runs her fingers through them.

She shakes her head again, wonders if when the man hit her last night he damaged some critical part of her brain.

She is about to step further into the kitchen and make her presence known when Henry’s voice pipes up, quiet with an edge of nervousness.

“Dad?”

“Yeah, bud?” Philip responds.

“How do you know if you’re in love?”

She sees Philip’s back straighten as he turns his head toward Henry.

She slips out of the kitchen and into the hall, back against the wall, body still.

“How do you know if you’re in love?” Philip repeats back. “Why do you want to know? Is there a...girl at school you like?”

“No!” Henry rushes out. “No. Not really. Well, maybe. I don’t know.”

“It’s okay to have a crush, Henry. It’s perfectly normal.”

Philip’s voice takes on that gentle, encouraging tone he so often uses with the kids. It calmed them, made them know what they were saying mattered, that he was listening to them.

She envies the ease at which he communicates with Henry, no matter how many times he reminds her that the kids love her and need her just as much as they do him.

“It is?” Henry’s voice squeaks.

“Yup, everyone gets crushes.”

She can’t see it, but she knows that Philip places a hand on Henry’s head, ruffles his hair as he speaks to their son.

“But how do I know if it’s love?”

“Well...you feel...butterflies in your stomach whenever you see the person, and you think about them all the time, even if you’re not with them.”

 

_‘I missed you.’_

_‘At racquetball?’_

_‘Yeah. That’s why I lost.’_

_‘Come on. ‘Cause you were thinking about me?’_

_‘I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I’ve never double-faulted so much in my life.’_

 

“What else?” Henry asks.

“You think they’re beautiful, no matter how they look or what they’re wearing.”

 

_‘I was...surprised that you were pretty.’_

_‘Surprised?’_

_‘Not surprised, relieved.’_

_……._

_‘I’d hire you in a heartbeat. You and your socks.’_

 

“She _is_ beautiful dad. She’s the prettiest girl in school.”  
  
“Yeah?” Philip responds.

She can hear the smile in his voice.

“What’s her name?”

“Daaaaad,” Henry whines.

“Come on, you can tell me.”

Henry sighs.

“Promise you won’t tell mom or Paige?”

“Promise,” Philip replies, serious.

A part of her is jealous that Henry willingly shares this with Philip and not her, but then she thinks of their separation and how miserable Henry was, how badly he needed his father.

“Sarah,” Henry breathes, clearly enamored.

“Sarah,” Philip repeats. “That’s a nice name.”

“Yeah,” Henry agrees.

“Butterflies in your stomach, thinking someone’s beautiful...those are just superficial things, Henry.”

“Superficial?”

“Something that’s only on the outside, that isn’t as important or as meaningful as other things. Do you understand?”

“I think,” Henry replies.

“To really love someone,” Philip begins, “you have to put them first in your life. They have to be the thing that matters most to you above all others, even yourself. You have to be willing to do anything for them, no matter what. Even if you have to do something that might hurt or upset you. If it makes them happy, if it makes their life even just a tiny bit better, you have to be willing to do it.”

 

_‘How did he hurt you?’_

_The captain, dead in their garage. A new life and $3 million gone._

_……_

_‘Please, Philip. He’s been loyal to the cause. Give him this.’_

_Philip, putting the gun down on the table, letting Gregory walk out._

 

“Like how you and mom take care of me and Paige?”

“Exactly like that, buddy. Your mom and I would do anything for you and your sister. Anything.”

She swallows back the tears that form in her eyes, thinks of how Paige and Henry were just another part of the mission to her, back when they were both far off ideas, something forced on her, before they were helpless, wriggling creatures in her arms, dependent on her and Philip for everything, offering their love unconditionally, unquestioningly.

“Love requires sacrifice,” Philip goes on. “There has to be give and take on both sides, but you need to be able to put aside a lot of things to make it work.”

 

_‘We always do it your way. We’re doing it my way for once.’_

 

“Like what?” Henry asks.

“Well...what if you find out Sarah doesn’t like hockey?”

Henry’s gasp of horror is audible.

“Dad! How could she not like hockey?”

“She might not. She might hate hockey, might never want to watch it. What would you do?”

“I can’t give up hockey, dad.”

Philip chuckles.

“You wouldn’t have to give it up entirely. You might just have to compromise. Maybe you go somewhere else to watch a game, maybe you don’t watch it when she’s around.”  
  
“But why do _I_ have to give up what _I_ like?”  
  
“You don’t. See, if she loves you back, she accepts you for who you are. Even if she doesn’t like hockey, she lets you watch it at home, tries to learn more about it because it makes you happy.”  
  
“Like mom does?”

Philip chuckles again.

“Exactly like that.”

“Is that why you fell in love with mom?” Henry asks.

“Because she lets me watch hockey?”

“Yeah.”

“No, that’s not why I fell in love with your mother.”

“Then why?”

Philip is silent for what seems like a moment far longer than it actually is.

She stands in the hallway, holds her breath, shoulders tight as she waits for his response. Will what he says to Henry be a lie or the truth?

Philip takes a deep breath.

“It was a lot of little things over a long period of time,” Philip finally says.

 

_‘It never really happened that way for us. But I feel like it’s happening now.’_

 

“Like what?” Henry asks, persistent.

“Silly things, like how she rolls her eyes at all of my jokes, the way she smiles when she’s happy, how she always knows how to cheer me up after a long day.”

“Gross, dad. That’s so mushy.”

“Hey, you asked.”

Silence falls over them for a moment. The cartoon fills the emptiness left behind by their voices.

“It’s not just the little things, Henry. Your mom is the strongest person I know, and that’s why I fell in love with her. She can do anything and she doesn’t need anyone to help her do it. Does that make sense?”

“No.”

Philip sighs.

“You’ll understand one day.”

“That’s what Paige always says.”

“That’s because she’s your big sister and she likes to annoy you.”

They fall silent again and she wonders if she should reveal herself now, wait a moment and pretend she just came down the stairs.

Her heart races, head trying to wrap itself around Philip’s words, too open and honest to be anything but the truth. What does that mean for them, now that she’s heard this?

Somehow she finds she is still surprised, still taken aback that Philip actually loves her despite the fact that he has told her twice now. The first time tainted by the dark cloud of Irina that hung over them, the second scrawled onto a piece of paper when they both thought it was likely they’d never see each other again.

Just as she pulls herself together, prepares herself to enter the room, Henry’s voice pipes up again.

“What do I do if she doesn’t love me back?”

She hears rustling, pictures Philip hooking his arm around Henry’s shoulders.

She strains her ears to hear Philip’s voice, soft and low, tinged with a tired sadness.

“You keep trying, you keep showing up. Show her how much you care, how you would do anything for her.”

 

_‘You don’t deserve it.’_

_……_

_‘I am your husband, Elizabeth.’_

_……_

_‘You went to him.’_

_……_

_‘Do you think it would have been different for us, if we’d said the words?’_

_‘I don’t know.’_

 

“What if it doesn’t work?”

“Sometimes that happens. And...it sucks. It’ll hurt for awhile, but you may have to accept that no matter what you do, no matter how much you love her, she just doesn’t love you back.”

 

_‘When we met, I could tell you were disappointed, that you wished I was someone else.’_

 

Her heart clenches. The defeat in Philip’s voice cuts through her.

“Love stinks,” Henry concludes.

Philip laughs, short and hollow.

“It does. But it’s worth it.”

 

_‘I was supposed to be able to trust you, and I never should have. I never should have.’_

_……_

_‘Don’t.’_

_……_

_‘I’m not ready.’_

_……_

_‘It’s only you, it’s always been you.’_

 

Nineteen years of spurned advances, of glares at his jokes and attempts to make her smile, of doing things her way. Nineteen years of Philip, always at her side, always willing to do what she asked, standing by her as her partner in all things, risking his life to save hers, putting himself out there, heart in his hands, offering it to her time and time again, offering pieces of himself, offering happiness, offering love.

And her, rejecting, pushing him away, stabbing his heart at every opportunity, offering only scorn and indifference.

Even after the events of the last year, Gregory and Irina, wanting it to be real, willing to try, their separation, her injury, Philip coming home. All that and still she hurt him, they hurt each other.

Why? For what?

Her body trembles, legs weak as she leans against the wall for support.

Henry’s laughter rings, loud and bright at something on TV, Philip’s following chuckle lower and more subdued.

She takes several deep, steadying breaths and creeps quietly back up the stairs under the pretense of checking on Paige before heading downstairs again.

She knocks lightly on Paige’s door, a muffled ‘Come in’ the response. She pushes the door open and pokes her head in.

Paige is still buried under blankets and sheets, back to the door.

“Dad made breakfast, do you want to come down?”

Paige’s head emerges from the blankets.

“ _Dad_ made breakfast?”

The incredulity on Paige’s face brings a smile to her own.

“I’m just as surprised as you.”

She lowers her voice conspiratorially.

“I think he feels bad about the other night. What do you say you come downstairs, have some breakfast, and later you guys can talk it out?”

Paige hesitates, shrugs her shoulders in teenage indifference.

“I don’t know.”

“Come on, sweetie. He didn’t mean to upset you. He’s just struggling to understand your interest in the church. I bet if you both sat down and talked about it like adults, he’d be willing to listen.”

“You think so?”

“I know so. Your dad loves you, Paige. He wants what’s best for you, just like I do. If the youth group makes you happy and is important to you, he’ll come around. Just give him a chance.”

Paige sighs, shoulders slumping in acceptance.

“Okay.”

She steps into the room and drops a kiss on Paige’s head.

“It’s very grown up of you to do this, Paige. I’m proud of you.”

Paige blushes under the direct praise.

“Thanks, mom,” she mumbles.

“I’ll see you downstairs.”

Paige nods.

She turns from Paige’s room and stands at the top of the staircase, gathering the strength to return downstairs and look Philip in the eye as if she’s heard nothing, as if nothing has changed.

Just as she is about to descend the stairs, Philip appears at the bottom.

He looks up at her, eyes unreadable, a soft smile on his face, the tentative one he so often uses around her, as though he is afraid anything more will put her off, will trigger a sharp word from her tongue.

“Morning,” he murmurs.

“Good morning,” she murmurs back, struggling to keep her voice steady.

Philip takes several steps up the stairs and stands on the landing. His eyes scan her quickly, hold for just a hair’s breadth longer on the area of her face where he knows the bruise darkens beneath layers of concealer.

“How’s the…” Philip trails off.

“Fine,” she responds quickly, wary of Paige emerging from the bathroom at any moment.

“Good,” Philip nods. “I made eggs,” he offers. “The way you like them.”

“Thanks,” she says, descending the stairs.

“Don’t thank me yet,” he says as she meets him on the landing. “You haven’t tried them.”

She pauses. He stands there, waiting, as always. He raises his eyebrows, expectant.

She rolls her eyes, both at his words and his expression.

His shoulders lose a bit of their tension, their customary exchange a comfort to them both.

“I have faith in you,” she says as she continues down the stairs and into the kitchen, her shoulder brushing his as she passes.

He enters the kitchen a few moments after her, holds out a fork across the counter as she sips coffee by the sink.

She accepts it and spears a cluster of eggs, making sure to get pieces of ham and onion.

Philip leans against the counter, watches her with dramatized anticipation, a cautious hope in his eyes.

She brings the fork to her mouth, eyes never leaving Philip’s as she seals her lips on the cool metal and pulls it slowly from her mouth. Teasingly slowly, if the slight darkening of Philip’s eyes is any indication.

The food meets her tongue, the eggs unexpectedly creamy. An underlying kick of flavor catches her off guard and throws her full force into a memory of home. Her eyes slip closed as she chews and swallows, a satisfied hum breaking from her throat.

She lets the memory play its course, eyes shut for a moment after she finishes the bite. Her mother, preparing deviled eggs, with sour cream and -

“Horseradish,” Philip says, a wisp of his breath across her skin.

She opens her eyes, surprised to find Philip right in front of her, staring at her, eyes and face more open to her than they’ve been in days, weeks. Pure desire fills his eyes, a raw need that makes her breath catch. And something more, hope and understanding, a bit of pride in himself for making her feel something other than worry and fear.

His arms bracket her, his body hovers inches from her own. He smells of aftershave, coffee, fresh laundry, and their bedroom.

Upstairs the sink runs. Henry’s cartoon fades into a monotonous buzz.

Philip leans forward. She parts her lips, expectant.

But he bypasses her lips, tilts his head and she thinks he’s going for her neck, that soft spot beneath her ear he has always been fond of.

He surprises her yet again when his head doesn’t dip there.

Instead his lips dust over her cheek bone, mindful of the bruise and cover-up, a featherlight kiss so achingly tender, so _Philip_ that tears spring unbidden to her eyes.

His lips drift lower, further down her cheek, still light as he traces the area of the bruise.

She watches, enraptured by the heaviness of his gaze.

His lips drift lower still as he finally goes for the spot on her neck, the one that weakens her, drives her to the edge no matter how hard she fights it. He knows what it does to her and that has frustrated her to no end so many times before. She’d hated herself for the things he’d make her feel when his mouth landed there. She’d hated him too, for finding the spot in the first place and returning to it so often.

This morning she finds she can’t summon any of that old hate, can’t really even remember why she hated it, and him, so much in the first place.

“Mooooom, daaaaad,” Paige whines from across the kitchen.

Her eyes dart from Philip to her daughter, Paige’s face scrunched in teenage disgust at discovering her parents behaving in such an overly romantic fashion.

Philip pulls away from her neck as a blush rises to her cheeks.

Philip’s eyes flick to hers briefly as he turns to Paige, desire still simmering there, but mirth shining brightly as well.

“Sorry, honey,” Philip says, voice remarkably steady.

His gaze flicks to her once again, a lopsided smirk taking shape on his face.

“Your mom’s just so...beautiful I can’t help myself sometimes.”

She narrows her eyes at him, but that only serves to widen his smirk.

Paige’s face crinkles into further disgust.

“Gross, dad. TMI.”

Paige exits the kitchen and makes a beeline for the couch, joining Henry who’s wholly engrossed in the TV.

Philip watches Paige go then turns back to her.

She levels him with what she hopes is her most exasperated look, but she’s not truly feeling it.

“What?” Philip asks, all teasing gone from his face. “It’s the truth.”

Her eyes widen, mouth open to respond but nothing comes up.

Philip gives her a half-smile, a forced thing that breaks something inside her. His face is a mask again as he pushes himself back from the counter and leaves the kitchen.

She stares after him as he climbs the stairs, shoulders tense, back straight.

She doesn’t move from her position at the sink, frozen in place.

Upstairs the shower groans to life.

She stares, gaze unfocused, on the plate of eggs still sitting on the counter.

 

_‘I have never lied to you, never.’_

 

* * *

 Later, she’s in the basement folding laundry.

Distracted, mind miles away, she startles when the door flings open and Philip strides into the room.

The door clicks shut behind him as he heads straight for the electrical box that hides their stash of disguise pieces.

“You heard from the Centre?” she asks, turning to watch him rifle through wigs and clothing.

“Yeah,” he responds.

He doesn’t elaborate.

“What did they say?”

She’s met with more silence as he pulls a jacket from the closet, the thick brown one he often wears when he poses as a maintenance worker or drifter. He reaches for his black wool fisherman’s hat, the one she’ll never admit she likes to see him in the most.

He yanks the hat down over his head and stands, shrugging the jacket on over his black t-shirt.

He steps in front of the mirror they hung in the corner and begins to attach a goatee to his face.

She watches him, his motions methodical and well-practiced. The goatee comes to life, piece by piece. Something else she will never admit is how much she enjoys him with facial hair. He keeps his own face clean shaven due to the nature of their work, but she wonders sometimes how he might look if he didn’t have to, if he could develop some stubble and let it grow out, if one day she could feel it under her palm or at her neck, rough and scratching.

She blinks these thoughts away when he turns from the mirror, goatee complete, cover sliding into place.

He goes back to the closet, flicks open a case and removes a gun.

He still has yet to answer her.

He jams the gun into the waistband of his pants, secure at his back. When he reaches for a knife next, her heart jumps.

She busies her hands with the towels remaining on the dryer.

“Where are they sending you?” she asks, a quaver of nervousness in her voice.

Philip finally looks at her, hard-set determination in his eyes, the look he always gets before heading out on a mission.

“Routine meetup with a mark. Pencil pusher at the DOD.”

She quirks an eyebrow.

“And you need multiple weapons for that?”

“Can’t be too careful,” he says.

She nods in agreement, folds another towel.

“When will you be back?” she asks, nervous fingers smoothing the corners of the towel.

“Shouldn’t be more than a couple hours, I’ll probably miss dinner.”

Philip closes the closet door, shifts the electrical box into place.

“I’ll save you a plate.”

He gives her a curt nod and steps by her, heading for the door.

She sticks her arm out, fingers wrapping around the thick, worn materials of his jacket.

He halts, spins back to face her, cold detachment staring at her.

“Philip. Can we just...talk for a minute? Before you go?”

She hates how pleading her voice is, how he’s reduced her to begging, to becoming that woman who’s desperate for her husband to talk to her, desperate for him to - _love her_.

“What’s there to talk about, Elizabeth?”

He practically spits her name, voice hardened.

She takes a step toward him; he tenses, defenses up.

“I’m worried about you.”

He laughs, a nasty, scoffing thing that’s nothing like the rich, deep laughter that normally comes from him.

“I’m just fine, thanks.”

“Philip,” she says, desperation growing. “Please. I - I hate seeing you like this. And I...I just want to help you. Why won’t you let me do that?”

Each word is a struggle, reveals too much, but she can’t stop them from coming out.

Philip’s eyes drop to her hand, the one that still clenches his jacket, fingers buried deep in the material.

She watches and waits, breath held as he blinks, once, twice. And then he looks up at her again, hardened mask gone, complete and desolate brokenness etched into his face.

It hits her square in the chest, a heavy, sinking weight that forces her to see the damage that’s been done, by the strains of the job, both real and fake, the stress of keeping their family together, alive and safe, the long-term impact of how she’s treated him all these years.

He’s gutted in front of her, baring himself and laying it all out for her to see.

“Philip,” she whispers, taking another step toward him.

He straightens, closes his eyes. His breaths come short and shallow.

She releases his arm, raises her hand to his face, cradles his cheek like it’s a fragile thing, like he could shatter beneath her palm.

Tension and pain roll off him in waves, radiate out from his body at all points. How long has it been like this? How could she not have seen it?

 

_‘Love requires sacrifice.’_

_……_

_‘It was a lot of little things over a long period of time.’_

_……_

_‘If it makes them happy, if it makes their life even just a tiny bit better, you have to be willing to do it.’_

_……_

_‘She can do anything and she doesn’t need anyone to help her do it.’_

 

She takes a deep breath, shoves all other things aside, focuses only on the man in front of her.

“I can’t do it without you, Philip. Any of this. You...you think that I don’t need you. You’re wrong.”

Philip’s eyes blink open.

She expects to see shock there, realization as he discovers that she overheard him this morning. But it never comes.

Instead there’s subdued acceptance.

He’s known all day.

“You knew I was there.”

“I knew,” he nods.

She’s pleased by the bit of shame that creeps into his eyes.

Anger rises within her.

“How could you _do_ that, Philip?” she seethes.

He steps closer to her, breath heavy.

“Do what, Elizabeth? Tell the truth?”

For the second time today she’s stunned into silence by the admission of his honesty.

And for the second time today her inability to acknowledge his feelings causes her to hurt him even further.

“Don’t wait up,” he says, voice low as he turns from her and heads out the door and up the stairs.

She flinches as the hallway door slams shut behind him, rattling in its frame.

* * *

 She waits up, just to spite him. And she’s worried, more than she wants to admit to herself.

Philip can handle himself, she knows that, she’s seen it over and over again. But she can’t recall a time when she’s seen him so on edge, so on the verge of splintering.

And she knows as well as anyone how that can negatively impact a person’s performance in the field: their judgment, their awareness, their accuracy.

It can be as debilitating as driving drunk.

And significantly more deadly.

So she waits up, puts on a happy face for the kids at dinner, let’s Henry have an extra scoop of ice cream and gives Paige the night off from dish duty.

She sits at the kitchen table with a half empty glass of wine while Henry watches a hockey game and Paige studies in her room.

She sends Henry to bed at the end of the second period despite his protests. The Capitals are losing (again), but that doesn’t seem to bother him.

“It’s a school night,” she reminds him. “And it’s already thirty minutes past your bedtime.”

For once he gives up the fight, doesn’t protest. Perhaps he can sense how tense she is, body rigid with anxiety.

Henry dashes upstairs and reappears ten minutes later to give her a hug goodnight.

“Night, mom,” he murmurs.

She pulls him in close, breathes him in, toothpaste and shampoo, a faint scent of detergent. She holds on for a moment too long for Henry’s liking as he finally wiggles from her grasp.

She cups his head, his hair thin and soft beneath her fingertips.

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” she says.

He tilts his head at her, considers her for a moment, so much like Philip in the way he looks at her, as though he can see right into her and what she’s feeling.

Whatever Henry seems to find spurs him into action.

He darts toward her, pecks a kiss on her cheek and darts away, feet scampering up the stairs.

She’s left sitting at the kitchen table, fingers pressed to the spot Henry kissed, tears threatening to blur her vision.

* * *

She reads the paper, or tries to. She checks the radio, multiple times, more times than she should. She turns on the TV, puts on a late night show but doesn’t really watch it.

The hours tick by slowly, eventually crossing into the early morning of the next day.

She falls asleep on the couch some time after two, expecting the click of the lock to rouse her from sleep.

The click never comes, and instead she wakens to the sound of the kids’ alarms going off upstairs.

She blinks her eyes and works out the kink her neck, scanning the room for a sign of Philip.

The coffee pot isn’t on and the kitchen is just as she left it.

She rises from the couch and goes upstairs, poking her head into the kids’ rooms to rouse them into action.

Their bedroom door is closed, but she left it that way last night, didn’t want Paige or Henry to know she was waiting up.

She turns the knob slowly, in case Philip came home some time after she fell asleep on the couch and he made his way to their bed, still too upset with her to wake her when he came home.

She pushes the door open and peers inside. The bed is made, just as she left it last night, no indication Philip’s been there at all.

Anger spikes inside her, that he would stay out unnecessarily after a mission and not come home. And to what? Prove a point?

But then that anger dissipates into something far worse: fear. Because she remembers the gun and the knife that he took with him, remembers that he offered no details on where he was going or who his mark was.

“Be downstairs in ten minutes!” she shouts to the kids before hurrying out of the bedroom and back downstairs.

In the basement she quickly pulls out the radio, checks for any transmissions that might provide her with a sense of where Philip has gone, if he’s alright.

Everything from the Centre seems normal, and for some reason that concerns her. She gets the feeling that she’s being kept in the dark on something and she doesn’t know what or why.

She secures the radio in its hiding place and goes back upstairs to make breakfast, prep lunches, and get Henry and Paige to school.

All the while her mind is racing, thinking back on the last few weeks and if there was something crucial she missed, some indicator into what Philip is doing.

After successfully herding the kids out the door and getting them to school, she signals Kate. If anyone knows what’s going on, it should be her.

The anxious knot in her stomach grows tighter. She can’t shake the feeling that something is terribly wrong.


	2. Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the extreme delay on this second chapter. I know this story is now a bit out of date seeing as it's set in Season 2 and we're now in Season 5, but there's no point in it sitting unread in a doc on my computer.

“What do you mean you don’t know where he is?”

Kate shrinks back in her seat, the car console between them the only thing preventing her from lunging across the space and grabbing Kate by the throat.

“We lost contact and then lost his tracking signal,” Kate supplies, as if that information is supposed to make her feel better.

“Where was he going? When was your last contact?”

Kate’s eyes grow solemn, fear blatant across her face.

“Elizabeth…”

She slams her palm against the dashboard.

“He is my  _ husband _ ,” she says, each word measured and slow. “Tell me everything. Now.”

* * *

Martial Eagle. He went back to Martial Eagle.

After meeting with Kate, where each word out of the woman’s mouth heightened her sense of dread, she walked back to her own car parked along the pier.

She gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white as she stared out at the ocean.

Kate’s words repeated in her head, and then Philip’s words from yesterday joined them.

She didn’t realize she was crying until she could no longer see properly through her windshield.

And then she grew angry. Angry at Philip for going off on what was essentially a suicide mission, angry at Kate and the Centre for letting him do it, angry at Lerrick for bringing this into their lives, angry at Claudia for pressing them to find Emmett and Leanne’s killer, even angry at her country, for putting them in this impossible situation, for thinking people could lead lives like this.

The list was longer than that, certainly many more people had a hand in the events that had brought them to this point. But her anger was misplaced, and she knew it.

The only person truly to blame was herself.

She had failed Philip, in seemingly every possible way. As a partner, as a friend, as a wife.

She would find him. She would bring him home and make him see that he could trust her. That she was deserving of the love he gave to her so selflessly.

* * *

She tells the kids that their father had to rush into the office late last night to deal with a crisis: their entire computer system had crashed, and it could be a few days until it was up again. She has to go in and help.

Henry buys it and Paige doesn’t challenge her surprisingly, just shrugs and heads up to her room.

She calls their sitter, tells her she’ll pay her double for staying the night. Once that’s settled and she’s prepped the guest room, she hurries to the basement.

It doesn’t take her long to find what she needs: a wig, a hat, her leather jacket, a first aid kit, two guns, a knife.

She tosses everything into the car and goes back into the house. The sitter arrives a few minutes later and she greets her, overly apologetic about the short notice, grateful that she’s willing to stay the night.

She plays up the story of their computer network crashing at the office, knows the girl will probably ignore her, but does it anyway. She shows her the guest room upstairs and then makes her goodbyes to the kids.

Henry is sprawled out on his bed, the pages of a superhero comic book spread out in front of him.

“That doesn’t look like math homework.”

He startles at her voice, rushes to flip the comic book shut.

She smiles to herself as he struggles to make an excuse.

“Mom! I...uh...I was just about to do my math homework, you see...but then I...remembered this one scene where Aquaman uses...math. Yeah, math to...uh...save the world. So I thought I should read it, you know? Before I did my homework.”

She steps into the room and comes to stand by his bed. She rests a hand on his head and looks down at him, smile still on her face.

“Relax, Henry. It’s alright.”

Henry’s whole body sags with relief and she smiles further. He’s a lithe creature, their son. All gangly limbs and pointy elbows. He was small when he was born - smaller than Paige - and he’d had to stay at the hospital for a week longer. He wasn’t premature, just on the verge of it. It still scared both her and Philip, more than she would have confessed at the time.

Now he seems to grow an inch every day, well on his way to sprouting above both her and Philip.

Henry notices her jacket and his face falls.

“Are you leaving?”

She nods.

“I have to go help your dad at the office. He needs a break.”

The dejected sigh Henry releases fills her heart with guilt.

“When will you be back?”

“Late tomorrow most likely. With the computers down, everything’s a bit of a mess.”

Henry sighs again.

“Okay.”

“Hey, when dad and I are back, we’ll all go to the arcade for an afternoon. How about that?” she says, ruffling Henry’s hair.

Henry perks up a bit.

“Yeah, cool!”

She bends and drops a kiss to his head.

“Be good for the sitter.”

Henry nods but his attention is back on his comic.

“And finish your math homework, please.”

His head bobs again.

“Henry.”

He looks up.

“I will, I will.”

And then he’s back to Aquaman and The Justice League of America.

She stands there for a moment longer, observing her son and hoping she will actually be able to keep her promise and return to him and Paige tomorrow night.

“I love you,” she says from the doorway.

“Love you, too,” Henry tosses over his shoulder, still enraptured by his comic book. “Tell dad I say hey.”

“I will,” she replies, barely able to get out the words.

She worries it’s another promise she’ll have to break.


End file.
